


Indulgences

by lily rose (annabeth)



Series: piss!verse 2.0 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, Incest, John's A+ Parenting, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, References to Suicide, Sam is sixteen, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Voyeurism, Watersports, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, no actual suicide attempted or considered seriously, smoking and drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:53:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24687184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose
Summary: Sam won't get hard till after he does this, but then he'll be so hard that coming is only instants away.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: piss!verse 2.0 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787341
Comments: 2
Kudos: 166





	Indulgences

_Finally, I'm alone,_ Sam thinks, as he twists the shower knobs of the motel room they're staying in. John has gone on a hunt, and Dean went to pick up chicks. From experience Sam knows that means Dean will be gone awhile; even if he doesn't go home with a girl, or bring one back to the motel room, he likes to take his time choosing. Which gives Sam plenty of time to shower and relax.

He lets the hot water wash over him at first, soothing sore muscles from shooting practice the day before, then soaps up his hair, running his fingers through it, massaging his scalp, until it feels clean, then rinses the suds from it.

Next, he turns to face the drain, one hand braced on the shower wall, and the other hand… his other hand, he skims down his chest towards the part of his body that arrows into the leanness of his hips, then wraps his fingers around his soft cock. He won't get hard till after he does this, but then he'll be so hard that coming is only instants away.

He was fourteen when he first figured out that he liked this. Fourteen, in the shower, horny, and he had to piss. In retrospect, Sam doesn't remember why he didn't use the toilet _before_ he got in the shower, but whatever, the point is that he was luxuriating under the hot spray and decided that, for expediency, he would just pee in the shower.

He hadn't expected his body's response; he'd been blindsided by it, in fact. He had hardly finished peeing down the drain when he started to get excited, his youthful dick beginning to rise until it pointed straight upwards and held tight against his stomach. Surprised—especially since the only times he'd ever come at that point had been while he'd been sleeping—he had covered his erection with his hands with some hesitancy and no little wonder—which had exploded to full-blown shock when his body tensed, his balls tightened, and he spilled all over his belly and hand.

The orgasm wasn't as intense that first time as they would be later, as he got older, but it was _fast_. What he lacked in finesse his young, untutored body had made up for in enthusiasm, sending him hurtling over that precipice in mere moments. And as a fourteen-year-old who'd watched his only brother _way_ too closely when Dean was going through puberty, he understood what had happened, and that it usually took more effort than _that_.

Not much—he'd spied on Dean many a time when his brother was masturbating, and watched Dean as he explored his own body, twanging his nipples or rubbing his hard-on—but more effort than a simple, casual touch and then _boom_ , explosion.

Sam's sixteen now, and Dean doesn't jerk off in their motel room anymore. He hasn't for years; his brother is twenty now and not shy about his horndog proclivities with women. He isn't quite old enough to drink, but he'll hang around hustling pool in bars while older women ply him with drinks—because Dean is _beautiful_ , all soulful green eyes, honey-blonde hair, plush lips, and broad shoulders. Older woman are apparently incapacitated by their lust for him, even though he's usually much younger than they are—and if it's not that, it's their consciences are suddenly, tellingly absent when they get a good look at him. Dean's lean hips and trim waist don't hurt either, and if Sam thought, at thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, that he'd outgrow this inconvenient crush—well, he's been pretty thoroughly wrong so far.

But lately Dean has been bringing _girls_ back to the motel room. He'll send Sam out to purloin a pack of cigarettes and then shut the door, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign, whenever John isn't there to castigate him for his impulses. John would _kill_ Dean for smoking, and he's not thrilled with Dean's drinking—but he won't say anything, because he's more and more likely to pass out drunk in the second bed, snoring and sweating booze all night. The scent would make Sam sick, except he's usually cozened up next to Dean in the second bed, breathing in Dean's soft, sensual scent. His brother smells like some heavenly concoction, yet it isn't his cologne—in bed, he wears nothing more than boxers and the cheap motel soap he uses to wash at night.

Distracted by his thoughts, of remembrances of Dean next to him in bed, the erections he used to spring when he was lying wakeful, listening to Dean breathe and smelling his brother's skin, and the faint tang of his brother's cock beneath the bedcovers—Sam is not proud of this, but he knows _exactly_ what Dean smells like, because he knows his own musk, and he once (okay, more than once) sniffed Dean's boxers and memorized the smell—Sam doesn't hear Dean come in.

Sam is still braced against the wall, his forehead leaning against it, his fingers casually stroking his soft dick like someone playing a flute, lip clenched between his teeth as he swallows past the societal construct of toilet-training keeping him in check and begins to piss.

As he's gotten older, and taller, he gets less directly down the drain and more on the opposing wall, which he'd worry about, except he tries to thoroughly rinse it when he's done; he's also more likely to thumb over his slit, causing piss to swell over the soft head of his cock and spread up over his hand. He's panting, his cock hardening, tilting upward, and instead of a downward stream there's a pulse of it that spills over his cock and soaks his belly and pubic hair.

It's the moment just before he's done pissing, when his breath catches on an inhale as he gets almost impossibly hard and ready to come, that the susurrus of the shower fails to drown out the sound of someone else's breathing.

He oughtn't be able to hear it over the shower water pounding the tile, but it's _Dean_ , and he's learned every possible rhythm to his brother's breathing, every single way it sounds different, in every possible situation, and this—this is all the warning he gets before Dean shoves into the shower behind him.

Dean is dressed, Sam notes dispassionately behind his sudden panic, as the studs on his jeans suddenly dig into his ass cheeks. Dressed, and breathing with that little catch that means—oh my God, Sam thinks, as his brother urges his body closer to Sam, nestling the hardness of his erection into the crease of Sam's ass.

Dean is _hard_. How much did he hear? Or see, or smell? Does he know what Sam was _doing_?

His hard-on is flagging, not because he doesn't want Dean this close—but because his fear about what Dean might think has sapped some of his desire, no matter how much he might have wished for this—wished for Dean to want him _back_.

"C'mon, Sammy, don't stop on my account," Dean murmurs against his bare shoulders, which are scrunched up with anxiety. Dean is hard… Dean is pressing against him… Dean is slightly mocking, yet not. What does he—? Sam would've stopped pissing in fear if he hadn't already been finished by the time Dean climbed into the shower behind him.

"Dean, we shouldn't," Sam gasps, not because he doesn't _want_ to, but because he knows Dean will feel guilty later, for taking advantage of him. Dean used to jack off with nudie magazines, but once or twice Sam came to bed later and found Dean clutching a picture of Sam in his sleep. Now, the significance of that makes much more sense.

Sam had thought he was alone, that he felt this way about his brother but did so in a solo hell he didn't know how to break out of.

Then Sam remembers Dean was out cruising for chicks, and his heart, which had been hammering, begins to steady. Dean is only hard because he must have seen some pretty hot girl but struck out at picking her up. It's certainly not because of _Sam_ —and then Sam remembers what he was doing, realizes his hand is still loosely circling his softened flesh, and he tries to jerk away from Dean—who catches him about the waist with one bare arm, like a band of steel around his middle, holding him in place.

"What were ya doin', Sammy, huh?" Dean asks, nuzzling along the nape of Sam's bare neck. Sam has never, ever, been with another person when he got off, never had the experience of sex with someone else, so this is both shocking and—perhaps not surprisingly—very titillating. His neck, which he could have said was an erogenous zone—never underestimate the bookish nerds who like to research everything—is more sensitive than he'd thought. Dean's lips—and how often had he imagined _those_ , wrapped around his dick like he's seen them wrapped around beer bottles—and their incredible softness drag along Sam's nape, back and forth, as Dean hangs onto him via his abdomen. "You're built, Sammy. Damn fine." Dean tucks his face into the crevice of Sam's neck and shoulder, and breathes slowly against him.

Dean is trying not to lose his composure. The thought both surprises and gratifies Sam, who can feel his body begin to relax, the tightness in his shoulders loosening even as Dean controls his breathing with what must be Herculean effort—because God knows, Sam has slipped his leash long ago in this encounter, his cock achingly stiff now, his body feeling like a plucked violin string.

Dean's wearing only his t-shirt and his jeans, and Sam wants to ask—

"Why are you, uh, still dressed? You're getting soaked." His voice is hoarse, but not the unbroken rasp of six months ago.

"Couldn't wait," Dean murmurs. "I got off my leather jacket and—Sammy, you didn't answer me. What are ya doin'?"

"I'm in the shower, Dean, I would think it fairly obvious," Sam replies cuttingly, even though he doesn't want to deter Dean, doesn't want to drive him away—even though he _should_.

"Not what I meant, Sammy." Dean's arm goes lax, and his hand curls over Sam's where it's covering his cock. "And I know it wasn't simply jerking off."

"It's not—not what you think," Sam says, rather desperately to his own ears. How much did Dean see? What did he catch him doing—surely not pissing in the shower? And if he had, surely he doesn't know what it meant?

Dean's next words freeze his blood, even though Dean speaks lazily, without any sort of judgment, and his hand remains covering Sam's.

"Seems to me you were pissing in the shower, little brother of mine," he says. "And now your hand… well. You're pretty excited, Sammy." Dean squeezes their hands, and in the process compresses the grip Sam has on his cock—he gasps and his hips buck forward, causing Dean to chuckle right against his ear. "I wouldn't have done this before, Sammy, but you're not a little kid anymore."

Those words might have come across as creepy from anyone else—but this is _Dean_ , his big brother, his most ardent protector, and maybe his most ardent admirer as well? Because Dean is admitting to feeling the same way about Sam that Sam has felt about him for years. Admitting to it, and confessing that he wasn't willing to corrupt his baby brother while he was still a child. But things are different now. Sam's older and… _Dean knew._ He knew about the pissing, the masturbating… about _all of it_.

Up to and including Sam's perverted, illegal lust for his own brother.

"Relax, Sam," Dean says, his voice a soothing baritone. He's lowered the register till it sounds like sex smoked over velvet. And he's using Sam's preferred address, rather than the diminutive. "I'm not going to hurt you. You know that. I'd die before I let anything hurt you, including me. Tell me, Sammy, if I hurt you, and I'll start counting pills or disassembling razor blades."

"No, Dean," Sam's voice is choked, "I couldn't live without you, even if you did hurt me somehow. Not that you ever have."

"So enlighten me, Sammy. What were you doing just now, alone in the shower with the motel room all to yourself?"

"I-I had to piss, I forgot to go—"

"Sam. It's me." Dean's voice is soothing, but firm. He sounds just like the older brother Sam's always known, the brother who's never judged him for anything… and just like that, Sam _knows_.

He knows it's okay. That Dean isn't going to judge him for this either. He swallows, inhales, and prepares to launch into an explanation that uses pictorial evidence, arrows pointing this way and that, and internet knowledge gleaned from his misspent teenage years. If he can call it that, when he's still only sixteen.

But Dean moves away a moment, leaving Sam's back wet and cold, and Sam shudders, glances over his shoulder, ready to defend himself or decry his own urges, when he sees… Dean. Dean, stripping, with difficulty, out of wet jeans. Pulling his shirt over his head.

And then Dean is back, and his hard, silky smooth cock is so much aroused bare male flesh insinuated into the crease of Sam's ass again. Sam knows Dean isn't trying to fuck him—Dean would never actually abuse Sam's trust by trying to fuck him without asking first—but that Dean is letting Sam get used to the idea that Dean's motor revs up from thoughts of his little brother. Thoughts of _Sam_.

"You don't have to say it, Sammy," Dean says. "I already know." He kisses the wing of Sam's shoulderblade, tongue soft and lips even softer. Sam has longed to know what those lips feel like, in a moment like this, unguarded and unabashedly sexual. He shivers, a full body tremor that isn't at all about the cooling water sluicing over them. "You're okay, Sam."

Sam sighs and relaxes, leaning against Dean's superior height and strength. Sam is broad and tall now, but Dean is still taller, still stronger, because he's older. Sam longs to meet that height—to exceed it—to be strong enough for _Dean_ to rely on _him_ , instead of the other way around.

But Dean has given tacit permission for Sam to be like this: to be kinky, to like pissplay, as the websites call it. No matter how many he looked at or how often he indulged in this, there was always a small voice wondering, _but what would Dean think?_ because Sam measures everything—his whole life—against his big brother. He thinks he might outgrow that someday, but for now, he takes inordinate pleasure in polishing the pedestal Dean's on in his mind.

But even though he knew other people shared his kink, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about his brother—and now Dean knows, and Dean doesn't _care_.

No, more than that: Dean would indulge him, too. Dean would try it and see if he liked it. Sam knows this like he knows every scar on the back of his hands—or, for that matter, every visible scar on Dean's body. Actually, every scar, because they see each other naked all the time— even now. If John thinks this is weird or somehow unnatural, he's never remarked upon it; Sam wonders just what their dad thinks about anything, honestly. He's not the most hands-on when it comes to parenting—unless he's showing Sam how to shoot a new gun, or something of that ilk—and he probably hasn't even noticed the unique and teflon-strong bond between his sons.

And then Dean _moves_ , a slow undulation of his hips, causing his erection to rise up the crack of Sam's ass, and then he moves again, sliding it back down, a leisurely maneuver that makes Sam's saliva catch in his throat. He coughs, his own cock suddenly impossibly hard beneath their shared hands.

"So big, Sammy. I shoulda known you'd be huge; you put me to shame." He sweeps his hand up and down in a long experimental stroke that teaches him the shape of Sam's most intimate parts—and Sam isn't embarrassed _at all_. He's not even blushing, though he feels flushed—and Dean's cheeks are hot against him, as if he's fevered by arousal too.

"No, ah, I don't—" Sam's voice breaks "—not from what I can feel anyway," and he revels in the way Dean feels, all that hot, rigid flesh that he's giving to Sam without Sam even needing—without _ever_ needing—to ask.

"Come on, Sammy, show me what you're made of," Dean murmurs against his shoulder, dropping a smattering of kisses randomly on his skin. He keeps this up even as he begins to thrust carefully, gently, getting Sam used to things—but Sam quickly tires of that pace. He pushes back, grinding his ass down onto Dean's erection, causing Dean's breath to come unevenly, hot and damp against Sam's skin.

The water splashing down over them is almost cold, but Sam is burning up from the inside out, his blood feeling like it's on a literal boil, as Dean fucks himself against Sam's ass. Sam reaches up with his last coherent thoughts and turns off the faucet. The water stops.

But Dean doesn't. Dean's hand nudges Sam's out of the way, and begins stronger pulls on his cock, tugging him up the slope of arousal till it's nigh unbearable and his voice is a bleat in his throat. He can still feel those soft kisses from those luscious lips as they contact his skin, and Dean's breath, so warm and dear.

And all at once Sam is overwhelmed. He loves Dean _so much_ , he can't believe this is happening, that he has this at last—finally—and something he never thought he could have, because how could he have anticipated this turn of events?

Overwhelmed, overly aroused, overtly excited, Sam bites down on his lower lip, hips shoving forward in an uneven movement, reaching for—and grabbing—every last iota of sensation he needs, and he _comes_.

Pleasure sparks at the corners of his eyes, which he realizes at some point had fallen shut, and Dean's tender assault on his ass has become more fevered, urgency underwriting every motion as Dean thrusts and thrusts and _thrusts_. Dean knocks his head against Sam's shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin as he cants his pelvis up one more time and comes against Sam.

Sam can feel jizz splatter his lower back, his shoulders, hell, it's probably in his hair, the hair that Dean is currently raking his fingers through.

"Love your hair, Sammy," Dean mumbles, his breath soughing in and out of his lungs. Plastered to Sam's back, Sam can feel the way his heart is rabbiting in his chest, rapid and almost unpredictable—almost as unpredictable as the orgasm that had ripped through him like a hurricane. "Sammy."

"It's Sam," Sam says, when he can finally speak but for some interspersed gasps.

"Not when we're in bed," Dean replies, and Sam can feel a cold wet washcloth rubbing briskly over his back as Dean steps away a little. Dean is being his usual caretaker self, cleaning Sam up from where he came all over him.

"We're not _in_ bed, Dean, we're in the shower." Sam is splitting hairs, because that's what he does; someday he's going to be a lawyer, though he hasn't said anything to John or, more importantly, to Dean.

"Still Sammy to me," Dean says. The washcloth hits the floor with a wet plop. "You'll always be Sammy to me. And nothing you could ever do would disgust me."

Somehow, Sam knows Dean isn't referring to his inconvenient sexual desire for his only sibling—but to the piss kink he likes so much.

And Sam likes it that way, as he turns around, pressing all six feet of wet, soiled bare skin against his brother, and does the one thing he's been longing to do forever: he slots their lips together, learning the taste and contours of Dean's lips, the way he's always imagined.

He kisses Dean, in other words. And Dean—of course, Dean kisses him back.

END


End file.
